CHAPTER XXXIII.
Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives
entrance to such companions? Pray, get you out.
—Shakspeare.
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THE pleasure of that visit left a long after-glow; for if
we felt more than ever the loneliness of being alone, it was
something to look forward to such days as possible—it was
something even to have had pleasure. For a while we
were very quiet and happy, and were fast relapsing into
somewhat of the old peaceful feeling. Not with the old
bright visions and enjoyments—that could not be; we
had been too closely trimmed to venture forth many buds
or flowers,—but with a degree of negative happiness that
the trials and excitements of late years made very pleasant.
We began to think that apprehension might be laid
aside—that the world had done what it wished and would
now leave us a corner of the wide earth uncontested; and
when Archie and Candlish were again summoned home by
some great family occasion, we could have echoed their
parting words, that “we had had such a nice time since
the holidays!” We could live after any fashion if only
let alone; and the winter had gone off on its smooth runners,
without sleigh bells certainly, but yet with few jars.
We were just at the end of February.
“The pilgrims came to a delicate plain called Ease, but
that,” says Bunyan, “was but narrow, so they were soon
got over it.”
I was awaked one morning just as the day began to dawn,
by a knocking at the front door. There was no one stirring
in the house, and I lay still for a minute to listen. Again
the knock, not very loud but very distinct—what could it
be? I raised myself on my elbow and tried to consider,
with a curious feeling as if the knock needed no particular
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attention and might die away of itself—as if it were but a
visionary part of the twilight. There it was again, softly
as before, but this time at the back of the house. Most
unpleasantly startled I crept out of bed and going to my
father's door tapped gently—he was already aroused; and
I went back with all quietness that I might not wake Kate.
Was it the cold air that sent such a chill over me?
I heard my father open his window, and call.
“Who is there?”
No answer, and none came to the second demand. I
well remembered that when I was a child a messenger had
brought us tidings of sickness and death, in the very middle
of the night; and now, few as our friends were, my mind
could fix upon nothing else. But what—or who—or where?
I knew whence came the chill now.
By this time Caddie was up, and had gone down stairs.
I heard her returning, and throwing on my wrapper I ran out,
and looked over the balusters to ask what was the matter.
“O Miss Grace,” said Caddie, speaking low and with
much sorrow and interest, “wait till I tell ye! it's somebody
from Mr. McLoon.”
For a moment I felt relieved—then came the strong
instinct of self-preservation. Nobody could come for
good at that time in the morning.
“Is he in the house, Caddie?”
“No Miss, it's in the piasy he is.”
“Then fasten the door—Mr. Howard will be there directly.”
And even as I went to call him he passed me, and went
swiftly down stairs.
I had no mind that any encounter should come off without
my powerful presence; so dressing myself with all
haste and stealthiness, I gave one glad look at Kate's closed
yes, listened a moment to make sure that Mrs. Howard
was not up—a fair proof she was not awake—and then
tipped my way down,—the gladness of my heart thrown
back, and the sorrow thrown forward.
My father was in the kitchen, exchanging most energetic
remarks through the window with the man in the “piasy”;
who sat doggedly up against the house, as if he had been
part of the clapboarding.
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Wolfgang's attention was divided as impartially as
could be expected; for while keeping Mr. Howard close
company within, his keen looks and deep growls towards
the piazza seemed to say that his heart lay there; and the
said heart now and then relieved itself by a bark that
made the walls ring. At any other time I should have
laughed at him, and I came near it as it was.
Caddie had been shut out with the intruder, and was
flitting about the piazza, and sending encouraging looks
into the dark kitchen where the morning light was trying
to make its way.
“I order you to leave the house,” were the first words I
heard.
“And I sha'n't go till I've done my job,” came sourly
from the clapboards.
“What is it papa?” I said softly, “what is the matter?”
“That fellow McLoon has sent a sheriff here with an
execution. If he comes to the house I'll put him in the
lake!” said Mr. Howard with a fierce reference to the
absent Mr. McLoon, his voice trembling with agitation as
he paced up and down the kitchen.
I laid my hand on his arm.
“Dear papa! please do not speak so—he is not worth
your notice. And do not be so troubled—we shall not
mind anything if you do not. Pray keep yourself quiet.”
“What?” he said, stopping and looking at me.
“Pray do not be troubled,” I repeated,—“can't we keep
this man out?”
“Keep him out! yes!” he said vehemently, “if I had
any one to help me I'd put him out of the piazza! You
will take cold my child,” he added eyeing me, for I was
trembling all over, “there's no fire yet—go upstairs Gracie,
and keep yourself warm.”
“I am not at all cold papa—it's not that; I would much
rather be here.”
“The scoundrel!” he muttered, taking another turn
through the kitchen—“when he has no more right to the
money than he has to me!” And pausing before the window
Mr. Howard repeated,
“I order you to leave the house.”
“Yes—I hear—” said the man.
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“Papa I wouldn't talk to him,” I said. “We've got the
doors locked—he can't force them open. Come in the
other room papa, and I'll make the fire—you will take cold
yourself.”
“No my dear child, no—I am perfectly warm. You
had better go in there,—or get my cloak and wrap round
you.”
“I don't need it papa.”
The sheriff got up from his seat, and taking out pencil
and paper he began to note down all that he could see
through the window.
“Can he do that?” I asked.
“No, of course not!” said my father,—“that is not a
proper levy. I shall go out and tell him as much, and
send him about his business.”
“O I wouldn't go out there.”—
“Why not?” he said kindly. “Don't you trouble yourself
Gracie—I'll manage everything, never fear—and keep
as cool as a cucumber. Just fasten the door behind me—
no, no, old boy—you stay here.”
I kept back Wolfgang and shut the door; and then stood
anxiously awaiting in that fireless room the result of the
conference. Mr. Howard was very clear and decided, the
sheriff cool and impertinent,—the point in dispute being
whether the piazza was or was not the house. The sheriff
maintained that he had got in, my father that he neither
had nor should. On this last point I was equally resolved,
and took another look at the bolt.
This was neither Mr. Cross nor his successor, but whether
head sheriff or deputy I did not know. He had a
surly, sneaking look, that promised no fair treatment nor
civility.
“Well,” said Mr. Howard in conclusion, “I tell you to
go, and if you don't go I shall find some means of compelling
you.”
And with that he re-entered the kitchen, while the sheriff
noted down,
6 kitchen chairs.
“Is Mr. McLoon here himself?” said my father, opening
the door far enough for his voice to go out, and holding it
fast.
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“I guess he is—he come down 'long with me this morning.”
And apparently relieved by this reference to his principal,
the man opened the piazza door and shouted,
“Mr. McLoon!”
A merry “chick-a-dee-dee-dee!” came back to us from an
early riser of a black-cap. It was clear he didn't understand
English!
“Mr. McLoon!”—
“I reckon he's somewheres round amongst the trees,”
said the sheriff—“he can't ha' went off;” and stepping out
on the door-stone he again lent both eye and voice to the
search.
With a quick foot I passed my father, but fearing to lose
that one instant I signed to Caddie who was before me;
and when the sheriff turned round it was to see a closed
and bolted door. He was outside now, “and no mistake!”
For a minute he looked very silly,—then without a word
he marched off to institute a personal search for the invisible
Mr. McLoon. Was ever sound so pleasant as the
crunching of the frosty ground by his boots! I could
hardly believe my senses. Caddie put her hands on her
sides and laughed as if she had found a gold mine. And
retreating into the citadel we fastened everything that
could be fastened.
“Now let's have breakfast as soon as we can, Caddie,”
said I.
“Breakfast! is it at this time in the morning?”
“Yes, as soon as you can,” I repeated.
“Ha, ha?”—said Caddie—“breakfast, hey? And what
time 'll ye be after wanting dinner?”
“I don't know about that. But we have a fine quiet
time now for breakfast, and it's not best to wait.”
“It's a fine breakfast they meant yees should have,” said
Caddie.—“There's himself agin! Och! `ye ain't good
lookin and ye can't come in!'”
The sheriff peered through the window of the piazza, and
then with a loud voice he called out,
“I come to tell you that I've levied upon the cow, and
you ain't to do nothing with her—and upon the woodpile
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too,” he said, turning back to give this second piece of information.
“Very well!” said my father with a nod of his head
that promised small compliance.
We went into the breakfast-room, and soon had a bright
fire blazing; but my father was too much excited to sit
down or even to warm himself. He walked the floor,
nervously biting his under lip and seeing X Y and Z in
the carpet: sometimes looking out of the window, or going
into the kitchen, with now and then an interjection, or an
absent “what?” addressed to me. And I sat and stood by
turns, talking or entreating, but trembling still,—for a
rough hand had struck the keys, and the wires could not
cease their noiseless thrilling.
By this time mamma and Kate came down; and we
asked and told and consulted, till Caddie brought in breakfast
and we had taken the brace of a cup of hot coffee.
My father was not long in determining that he must go
that very day to consult Mr. Phibbs.
“But I cannot leave you here alone, either,” he said:
“those men might come back again.”
“Very well,” said Kate, “let them come—they won't
get in.”
“Yes but I can't bear to have you subjected to all this
annoyance—you've had too much as it is. Perhaps writing
would answer every purpose, and then I could be here
to deal with them.”
“O no,” said Mrs. Howard, “I wouldn't trust to it; the
post-office is not always regular. And if they should
chance to come again I would much rather you were away
than here.”
“But you must have some one in the house, and Andy
has a week's leave of absence.”
“Get John Finigan.”
“He is worth little enough—however I don't suppose
McLoon will attempt violent measures. But keep the
doors shut.”
The idea of telling us that!
Mr. Howard went off to take the first stage; and we
went the rounds of the front windows and doors, and then
proceeded to the kitchen to give Caddie her instructions.
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Miss McInn's “tight” little figure, habited in very short
petticoats and very high boots, was in full tide of business
among the breakfast dishes: the table before which she
stood being well piled with them; and bearing besides a
tub of water of which the temperature might be guessed
from the decided pink of her hands, and the cloud of
steam which enveloped her head. It proved itself too by
the clear brightness of the already washed and dried cups,
and by the very small portion of moisture they had transferred
to the towels which hung on the maiden at her side.
From the very midst of the cloud of steam came forth in
a strange buzzing tone,
“There lived a tailor beyont Athlone,
And he had nine daughters down by his knee.”
“Caddie,” said my stepmother, “I hope we shall have
this matter arranged in a few days, but until it is we must
keep shut doors. Don't open them to anybody; and if
you have to go out yourself call one of us to stand by the
door till you come back.”
“Then it's never a fut one of 'em 'll set in here Mrs.
Howard!” said Caddie turning about, and stripping the
water off her hands. “I've seen enough of 'em, the villains!
It's me ought to know them, for the times I've seen
'em at home—in the ould country.”
“Seen sheriffs do you mean?” said Kate.
“Indeed an' I do Miss Kate! I've seen 'em! I wouldn't
doubt but they're hiding some place round the house now,
just; and if we'd open the door ever so little it's in they'd
be, and sorrow a bit could we get 'em out!”
Involuntarily I looked to the door, while a most uncomfortable
shiver ran over me from head to foot. I
thought of Lady Clonbrony's
“Slide in? O horrid!”—
“It's many a time I've seen 'em!” said Caddie, going on
with her enlivening stories and the dishes at once,—“long
ago, at home—in swate county Kerry! It'll be goin' on
twelve year agin December next, sin they come to my
father's house one morning afore the day. And my father
was laying the fire, and wasn't dressed itself. And it's
bitter could it was, and snow that thick—and we childer
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in bed; for my father says `Lie still,' he says, `till the
fire'll burn,' he says. And then them niggers giv a little
knock at the door—just so as ye wouldn't hardly hear it—
and they'd come up unbeknownst on account of the snow
being on the ground, ye see. Well Miss Kate sure enough
they giv this knock, and little Pat (that's sister's son to
my brother-in-law Miss Kate) he just undid it; and my
father never knew a hate about it till they was all in, and
he lighting the fire; and the turf wouldn't burn; and my
father says `Weary on it!' he says; and then he just looks
about and there they was all!”
She had stopped her work, and with excited eye and
voice had gone over this bit of her experience as if the
whole scene were present before her; giving the last few
words with the very feeling of the time.
“And did they take anything, Caddie?” I asked.
“Troth an' they did Miss!—just took all they could find
but a bag of pertaters that was hid in the roof out of sight!
`And isn't it some of the childer ye'd be afther takin?' says
my father says he, `for there's nothing in life for 'em to do
here,' says he. Shcat!” exclaimed Caddie cutting short
her account with a sudden spring towards the dutch-oven.
“Then Miss Grace that cat's intill everything!”
From that time our house might have been the abode of
the Koh-i-noor, for the way it was guarded. A casual
observer on the outside would have thought the family not
at home,—and truly I thought so myself. It was a strange
kind of a home! Closed doors, and quiet movements, and
anxious hearts; and though the sun got leave to look in at
the windows, it was across a visionary shadow of Mr. McLoon
or the sour sheriff. Not a pail of water could be
wanted that Caddie did not come and say,
“Now I'm going to the pump—if one of yees would be
plased to mind the door.
And then generally two of us went. For ourselves we
were afraid to venture out except all together, lest as Kate
said, they should take advantage of our being out and beset
the door.
A blockade is a much more serious affair than any one
would suppose.
No doubt we concerned ourselves more than need be,—
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perhaps the blockade was only imaginary; but an unseen
danger is always magnified, and who would venture upon a
“perhaps”? We knew though they could make no levy
in the night-time, they might try to get a man into the
house who would open to them next day—such things had
been done. And so we considered ourselves in a state of
siege, and saw the sun set and the darkness come that first
night with no relief, except that the door need not be
opened quite so often as in the day; and then sat down to
our work with that old feeling of limited strength and unlimited
resolution!
It was a perfectly still evening. The winds seemed
asleep, and gave only now and then the faintest of murmurs,—
the field was clear for any sound that chose to take
it. Our little fire modestly asserted its existence, and Caddie
and John Finigan asserted theirs—by a dead level of
talk. But their tongues grew tired, and their boots creaked
upstairs to bed, and the field was clearer than ever.
“I think we had better go to bed too,” said my stepmother.
But as we looked up to give our assent, there came a
knock at the front door.
How our eyes met and our hearts trembled!
It came again. Not a cheerful, busy rat! tat!, but one
solitary rap, beginning and ending in itself,—not very loud,
not energetic—it just announced—somebody.
Kate spoke first, and softly.
“We mustn't open the door mamma—it may be a trick
of those people to get in.”
Mrs. Howard took the light and proceeded upstairs, we
following. Invest anything with a hidden, undefined,
stealthy character, and you make it terrible;—therefore as
we went we trembled—at that simple knock.
Leaving our candle in the hall we entered one of the dark
bedrooms, and opening a window Mrs. Howard inquired
who was there?
“Is Mr. Howard at home?” said a voice, while a man
stepped off from the house and apparently tried to see us.
“No,” said my stepmother.
“Where is he?”
“He went away this morning.”
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“Do you know when he'll be back?”
“No,” she replied again. “Who wants him?”
“I have a letter from Mr. McLoon.”
My stepmother paused a moment, and then simply repeated,
“Mr. Howard is not at home.”
The man waited a little, shifting his weight from one foot
to the other and grinding the gravel under them—perhaps
expecting that we would make some proposition,—then he
walked off.
“It's nothing in the world but a trick!” said Kate—
“What should Mr. McLoon have to write to papa at this
time of night?—they thought we would open the door and
then they could just walk in.”
“Well, we are safe for this time,” said my stepmother.
“But mamma,” said Kate, “what if they should come
again? and if Finigan heard them he'd may be go and open
the door before we knew anything about it.”
Mrs. Howard called Caddie, and desired her to tell our
guard that there had been people at the house already, and
that if he should hear any more raps he must take no notice
of them.
We had gone to bed, and sailing off on the sea of oblivion
had just “sunk” Mr. McLoon, when we were again roused,—
Caddie and Finigan were earnestly consulting or disputing
across the passage which divided their rooms. Mrs.
Howard sprang up to see what was doing, just as Caddie
presented herself at our door.
“What's the matter now?”
“Meself doesn't know ma'am—it's John Finigan says
it's sick he is.”
“Sick?”
“Then he'll never be killed unknownst!” said Caddie in
a parenthesis of contempt. “An' sure an' if ye are sick,
says I, why can't ye lie still, says I, and not be wakin all
the house, says I.”
“And is he going to lie still?” said Mrs. Howard.
“What does he want? what's the matter with him?”
“The dear knows! But he says it's home he'd like to be.
An' how are ye to get home, says I, and we to be opening
the doors for ye, says I—and the master away too!”
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And putting her arms in their favourite position, Caddie
laughed comically.
“For pity's sake let him go if he wants to!” said Mrs.
Howard again getting up. “I presume he's afraid those
people will come back; and if they do he is as well away
as here. I'll go down with you to fasten the door after him—
he wouldn't be of much use if we wanted anything.”
“It's only a peelin' of a man he is, any way,” said Caddie.
“Och them greenhorns ain't got the sense of Christians!”
They fastened the door after the deserter, but Mrs. Howard
and Caddie both affirmed that they had heard other
steps on the walk; and between imagining our besiegers
still about and Finigan's sickness another trick, we contrived
to fever and excite ourselves sufficiently.
“Suppose we let Caddie come and sleep in our room,
mamma,” said Kate.
“In our room?”
“Yes, she might lay her bed on the floor. Don't you
think we should feel more comfortable?”
So Caddie took up her mattress, and placing it in the
middle of the room where we were all together that night,
she presently went to sleep thereon. Not much protection
certainly,—but those sturdy, round arms were company at
least, and when the numbers in a garrison are reduced to
feminine units, they tell best together. And the rest of the
night passed without disturbance.
We had provisions enough to enable us to hold out for
some time—neither did the enemy attempt to invest the
pump: so far we were as usual. Finigan was not again
admitted into the house, but Mr. Howard's return saved us
from being quite alone. Still no measures of Mr. Phibbs
could as yet have taken effect, and our door-openings continued
to be of the most cautious—especially when my
father's place was supplied by Andy. Every window that
was not a daily ventilator was nailed down; and never did
we open a door at all without a most careful survey of its
exterior from some neighbouring pane of glass. I presume
we were much more ingenious than either Mr. McLoon or
his agents,—I doubt whether they could have contrived half
the surprises that we did. And to this day I know not but
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the blockade was imaginary—nor that it was. It made no
difference in our discomfort at the time,—it was very real
for all practical purposes.
“I don't like to have you go into the garden alone,” Kate
would say. “They might just take advantage of your
being out, and station themselves at the door.”
“They shouldn't get in—if I staid out all day!”
“But that would not be pleasant.”
And Mrs. Howard thought “we had better stay in, or go
together.” We came to be in the condition of Florence
Dombey's dog—with “a perpetual unseen enemy round
the corner.” Our own dog was certainly more restless
than usual, but that might have been caught from us. And
if ever we cooled down a little, Caddie would strike in
with,
“Why Miss Kate, I've seen 'em keep watch day and
night round a house, nor never lave it till they'd get in!”
Even my father when appealed to said he really couldn't
tell. Mr. Phibbs had done this and that—he thought there
could be no danger—but he had been so often deceived and
disappointed by law and lawyers that he hadn't much confidence
left in either. What gave emphasis to his words
was that he always locked the door himself. And so bolts
and bars were kept in full requisition.
But there never was anything so wearisome! the constant
fear—the constant mounting guard—the constant
vision of danger, hooded and cloaked,—we were half tempted
to run away and leave Mr. McLoon to deal with an
empty house. If his desire had been our discomfort, it was
fully accomplished,—he did not know how well.
Sunday was the only free day; and it was a perfect
luxury to open the doors and air the house of its prison-like
feeling. To stand in the doorways with careless impunity—
to go in and out with no tremor. It was long, long
before the experience of those weeks wore off. Even when
the whole affair was finally disposed of, there lingered in
our minds an association with open doors that made them
disagreeable; and many a time, in summer weather, have I
got up to turn a key or draw a bolt, and then breathed freer!
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Warner, Anna Bartlett, 1827-1915 [1852], Dollars and cents [Volume 2] (George P. Putnam, New York) [word count] [eaf736v2T].
